


Warning: Do Not Over-feed

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alien Sex, Crack, Dubious Consent, Humor, Other, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim buys a cute little octopus thingie to keep in an aquarium like a fish but the instructions for feeding aren't in Standard and it gets bigger and bigger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warning: Do Not Over-feed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silverlining99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverlining99/gifts).



The thing is too damn adorable  _not_  to buy.  
  
It’s in one of the multi-coloured tanks in the back of the store, floating alone and ridiculous amongst a little cluster of bright lime green faux-plant life.   
  
Not quite believing his eyes, Jim ducks down, blinking at the way the little creature uses its stubbly little tentacles to propel itself lazily in counter-clockwise circles around the tank, rising and falling in tiny puffs of movement. It has a round, bright blue body and wide googly eyes.   
  
As Jim presses his nose up against the glass, the little creature changes direction and comes toward his face, sticking up against the wall of the tank and fixing him with a grave stare.   
  
“Hey,” he says to the clerk. “I’ll take this little guy. What is it?”  
  
The clerk comes over to take a look, her expression turning puzzled. “Um. I’m not sure,” she says. “It looks like some species of octopus.”  
  
“Do you know how big it’s going to grow?”  
  
“It’s been here a while. I’ve never noticed it getting any bigger.”  
  


oOo

  
  
He sets the round fishbowl on his desk, next to his desk lamp, and smiles.  
  
“Okay, Fred,” says Jim, peering curiously at the tube of dehydrated fish food he’d bought along with the tank and the little plastic underwater castle sitting in the pile of neon pink peddles. “Feeding time.” The label is printed with brightly-coloured images that depict the act of tapping out food into the bowl, along with a questionable representation of a dead little fish with x’s for eyes. Jim blinks. The message is fairly clear— _absolutely don’t overfeed or you will kill your beloved pet, your careless motherfucker_. Too bad the accompanying text looks suspiciously like cuneiform. Jim wastes ten minutes digging around looking for a translation, something that’s in Standard, and comes up empty-handed.  
  
Shrugging, he taps out a miniscule amount and watches, face propped in his hands, as Fred gobbles up the little flakes of synthesized food happily. Fred hangs in the lull of the water, watching him almost expectedly, tentacles pulsing softly to keep him afloat.   
  
“Still hungry?” guesses Jim, squinting at the label and wishing he had some sort of example to go on. “Well. I guess a little more can’t hurt.”  
  


oOo

  
  
He feeds Fred a little more each day. He—she? it?—Jim still isn’t exactly sure—seems hungry and the extra dose of food doesn’t seem to be hurting him. By the end of the first week, he’s almost positive Fred has packed on a few pounds.   
  
“Hmm,” he says, eyeing the size of the tank in relation to his little blue pet. “You look a little bigger. Guess I should’ve measured you when I got you.”  
  
Later, when Jim goes to feed Fred his daily ever-increasing portion of delicious flakes, the pop-top of the food canister gets stuck, and Jim makes the mistake of prying it open while he’s still holding it over the top of Fred’s fishbowl. The lid comes off, but he also drops the entire thing into the water. By the time he scoops out the canister Fred has systematically consumed every single scrap of the strong-smelling food and is floating happily in the bowl. Jim wonders in a vague panic if he’s going to wake up to a dead octopus, floating bloated at the top of the bowl, and whether he’ll be conducting a funeral service in the bathroom.   
  


oOo

  
  
Fred doesn’t pass on. Fred fucking  _thrives_.  
  
At the end of three weeks, Jim has upgraded his home three times until it’s no longer a fishbowl and more like a freakin’  _bathtub_.   
  
“What the  _fuck_  is that?” cries Bones, leaping about two feet into the air when he turns around and nearly trips over Fred’s new tank.  
  
“Fred,” replies Jim with a wide grin. “Isn’t he awesome?”  
  
Fred is about a foot long and his tentacles are triple his body length.   
  
Bones eyes Fred warily, blinking in disturbed surprised when one of the tentacles lifts out of the water and waves vaguely. Jim watches Bones deliberate on what to do in response and then eventually raise a hand to wave back weakly.  
  
“It did just wave at me, right?” he asks in a hoarse whisper.  
  
Jim nods. “He’s a very polite cephalopod.”  
  


oOo

  
  
Turns out, he’s not only polite, he’s downright  _accommodating_.  
  
Jim wakes up one morning with a name on his lips and a hand on his cock, right in the middle of stroking himself to completion. He’s still half-caught in the heavy lull of sleep and dreaming, not quite sure whether this is just a wet dream, when something wet and warm and pleasantly slick wraps around the base of his cock.   
  
“Uh,” grunts Jim, shifting sleepily, stroking up the shaft and relaxing into the warmth of the grip around his erection, a subtle tug of flesh that brings him patiently to orgasm. He drops back off and wakes up later in a sticky mess, his hands still tangled in his pyjama pants and his eyelids gummy with sleep.   
  
The same thing happens again the next morning, and the next. On the fourth morning, the soft engulf of unfamiliar flesh is accompanied by a tentative, almost curious press against his balls, then perineum, until something prods  _into his ass_ and strokes inside him delicately. It feels nice, actually, really good, little shocks of pleasure dancing off his prostate, but then the pressure increases as something pushes in further, stretching, pulling—  
  
Jim’s eyes snap open.  
  
“Ohhhhh holy fucking  _CHRIST_!” he yelps, scrambling backwards from Fred, who is apparently capable of  _abandoning his tank_  and  _crawling onto Jim’s bed_ , where he’s now curled between his legs, tentacles reaching out for him. As Jim recoils, Fred makes a sad little trilling noise that Jim has never heard before and immediately retracts his tentacles. He removes himself from the mattress with bewildering grace, sinking back into his tank and cramming himself into the far corner, making himself as tiny as possible.   
  
Jim sits, wide-eyed, guilt churning up in his belly. Untangling himself from his damp sheets, he pads over to the tank and kneels down beside it. Fred makes himself ever smaller.  
  
“Shhh,” Jim finds himself crooning. “Hey, don’t do that. I’m sorry, you just startled me, dude. Hey, come on. Don’t be like that.”  
  
He hesitates and then reaches into the tank, stroking over the top of Fred’s velvety round head. A tentacle reaches up and curls companionably around his wrist.   
  
“So I guess those weren’t just really vivid sex dreams, huh,” says Jim ruefully. “Bones is gonna wet himself.”  
  
Fred’s detaches himself from the corner and makes that trilling sound again, this time much more burbly and pleased.   
  
Jim laughs, scratching the top of his head. “Well. Crazier things have happened.”


End file.
